Chapter 8 - The Sound of Life
The first sensation was the smell of rubbing alcohol and the heavy, dull ache in my lower abdomen.
The second sensation was warmth. A large, rough hand holding mine, fingers interlaced, never letting go.
I forced my heavy eyelids open.
The light was soft, filtered through sheer curtains. I was no longer in the chaos of the emergency department or the cold steel of the operating room. I was in a private, sunlit recovery room. A steady, gentle *beep-beep-beep* pulsed from the cardiac monitor beside my bed.
Beside me, slouched in a vinyl armchair with his head resting on the edge of my mattress, was Elias.
He looked completely broken. Dark purple bruises of exhaustion hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. His face was covered in several days of dark stubble, his clothes rumpled and worn. But his hand was clamped over mine like a lifeline, his grip so fierce even in sleep that his knuckles were pale.
“Elias…” My voice was a dry, sandpaper croak.
He bolted awake instantly.
His eyes flew open, locking onto mine with a frantic, desperate intensity that made my breath catch. For three seconds, he simply stared at me, as if convinced I was an apparition brought on by sleep deprivation.
“Addie?” he rasped, his voice raw. He surged forward, rising from the chair, his hands coming up to cradle my face with exquisite, trembling tenderness. “Addie… oh God, Addie. You’re awake.”
“The baby…” My heart seized in sudden, violent terror, the memory of the blood and the dragging heart monitor crashing back into my skull. I tried to sit up, but the sharp agony of my surgical incision pinned me to the mattress. “Elias! Where is my baby? Is he—did he—”
“Shh, shh, stop, don't move!” Elias pleaded, gently pressing his hands against my shoulders to keep me still. “He’s alive, Addie. He’s alive. He’s safe.”
Tears of pure, overwhelming relief spilled down my temples, soaking into my hair. “He’s alive?”
“He’s in the NICU, three doors down,” Elias whispered, a broken, beautiful smile breaking across his exhausted face. “He was thirty-four weeks, so he needed a little oxygen support for his lungs, but Warren said his APGAR scores bounced right back after delivery. He’s breathing on his own now. He’s three pounds, fourteen ounces of pure, stubborn fight.”
I covered my face with my trembling hands, weeping so hard my incision burned, but I didn't care. The nightmare had passed. My son had survived.
“He looks like you,” Elias murmured, his fingers gently brushing the damp hair away from my forehead. “He has your mouth. And your chin. He’s… he’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Have you seen him?” I asked through my tears.
“I haven't left his incubator except to run back here and check on you,” Elias admitted, his voice thick with emotion. “Sophie is with Marcus in the family lounge. She brought a stuffed lion for him. She said… she said Leo needed his armor.”
*Leo.*
A soft sob escaped my lips. “You named him Leo?”
“Only if you approve,” Elias said quickly, dropping his gaze with that newfound humility that continued to break my heart. “I wouldn't presume, Adelaide. I haven't signed anything. The birth certificate is completely blank. It’s waiting for you. Whatever you want. If you want my name off it… I will understand.”
I looked at the powerful, arrogant titan of industry sitting before me, reduced to a man who was asking for permission to exist in the life of his own child.
“Elias,” I whispered.
He lifted his eyes, full of dread, preparing for the rejection he believed he deserved.
“Help me up,” I said.
“Addie, you had major surgery twelve hours ago, you can't—”
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“Get me a wheelchair,” I ordered, a tiny spark of the ER attending returning to my voice. “I am going to see my son. And you are going to take me to him.”
***
